


there is still fire in your tomb

by Mira_Jade



Series: How You'll Remember Me [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . guess what they named their eighth child?, . . . you're welcome?, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Fun fact: Eliza was pregnant in real life when Philip was shot, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Since that destroyed me I thought to share the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5303777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They name their last child Philip, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is still fire in your tomb

At first, Alexander Hamilton was not sure if his presence in their bed was something his wife would permit.  
  
It had been years since he had last wondered such, or debated so; knowing the impossibility of what he asked his wife to forgive, but also knowing the grace and mercy he needed – nay, _yearned -_ for her to extend. Then, he had patiently scrapped and clawed for every ounce of absolution Eliza had at last allowed him, and for those days to again rise as a specter, casting a pall to create their darkest hour together . . . he could not bear it, he could not yet fathom it. For this was not a wound so thoughtlessly inflicted by his own hand upon the sanctity of their marriage, but a blow done to their child . . . their _son_ . . .  
  
. . . _Philip_. Even now, merely the cadence of his name within the confines of his mind was enough to inspire the hot rush of tears anew. He had finally changed from his soiled waistcoat into clean night-clothes, not wanting to have his son's blood staining his person when he at last sought out his wife. But no amount of washing or scrubbing could make him forget the hot, wet rush of Philip's life-force that had marred his hands . . . just as no amount of clenching his fingers into fists could make him forget his boy's hand listlessly trying to return the pressure of his touch when he wound their fingers together, only to slacken entirely as . . .  
  
. . . but he swallowed, and let out a shaky breath through suddenly unsteady lungs. His hands trembled as, slowly, he unwound his fingers from their fists, one at a time.  
  
He did not know how to begin to seek forgiveness for this, and that was the honest to goodness truth of the matter. Alexander could only hope, almost desperately, that the mountain of his failure could be moved in time - but he did not yet have the strength to summon his faith in the unimaginable once more; he could not yet bring himself to climb the summit of that impossibility. So he simply lingered in the doorway of their bedchamber, loitering as a ghost of dark days gone by, indecision plaguing his heart as he stared into the dark indigo play of the shadows, swallowing everything the night touched within. From the stubborn moonlight streaming in through a crack in the tightly drawn drapes, he could see the curve of his wife's shoulder. Her back was turned towards the doorway, and, for a moment, she was still enough for him to delude himself into thinking that she was peacefully partaking of her rest, as if this were any other night he had arrived home at much too unseemly an hour for her to have waited up for him.  
  
He stared at what the moonlight illuminated, hovering in indecision and feeling the long hours of the day weigh upon his shoulders as if he were Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back. He lingered, disturbing not a shadow as he watched his wife breathe; slowly, in and out, with only the barest of shuddering anomalies in the rhythm to betray that all was not as it should be. He had already seen the rest of their children to bed; Angelica, in particular, had cried herself into an exhausted slumber, for she had shadowed her brother's every step since her very first step, and Philip's death was as to remove one lung from its mate within her chest. Alexander, his secondborn son, had rushed home from school at hearing of his brother's misfortune, and was even now sitting vigil by his older sister's bedside, ready to see her through her grief while their parents yet could not - which the elder Alexander did not yet have the words to express his gratitude for. John and James had piled into the same bed with their youngest two siblings, with poor William being just barely able to grasp the concept of death and little Eliza only blinking her big eyes and trying to understand with a three year old's mind just where her brother had gone, and why he was never coming back.  
  
After making sure his children were settled, he had walked the city streets for he knew not how long, staying out until the small hours of the morning. He only knew that his feet ached and his body was crying out for rest - for the comforting oblivion of what sleep he would be able to snare that night, and the cold buildings and flickering streetlamps did not have any pity as they stared down at him. The towers he had once helped erect only judged, and the babbling of the river in his ears was not loud enough to distract him from the tomb of stone and lost chances and _failure_ he was now buried in as both a husband and a father. His sins had once again come back to haunt him, and he would never be completely free from the error of his ways, it would seem.  
  
Now, he wanted nothing more than to slip into bed besides his wife, to bury his face in her hair and feel the comfortable curve of her body as it tucked in against its own. He wanted to count her heartbeats and feel her small hands sooth away the tense knots of muscle that seemed to permanently bind his back. He wanted his senses to fill with her and forget everything else; he wanted to shut out the wide, merciless world beyond their bed, and yet . . .  
  
. . . he could not bring himself to take that first step; for the first time in so long not knowing if what he wanted was what Eliza wanted, and his uncertainty pained him.  
  
Yet, his mind was made for him when he heard his wife draw in a deep breath, shaky with a tell-tale edge of grief as she swallowed back a hiccup of a sob. She was not sleeping, even though her body may have desperately needed rest, and when he moved to climb into bed besides her she did not move to stop him, nor did she whisper to send him away.  
  
Gently, he arranged himself so that she could press her back against his chest, and for a moment he closed his eyes against the ruined remnants of her plaited hair, breathing in the scent that would always be _peace_ and _home_ to his mind as he tightened his arms around her. She had yet to change out of her gown from earlier, he noted, and there was a dry, stiff texture to the front of her dress that his stuttering brain at first balked to identify. When he finally did, he had to blink back tears anew, but he did not take his hands away from her; instead, he only held her tighter. Gently, ever so gently, his right hand fell to rest on her midsection, where only the slightest of bumps was there to tell of what new life was growing inside of her – it was barely visible at this early day in her pregnancy, but it was something that _he_ could feel, knowing every contour and shape of his wife's body near as well as he did his own.  
  
In all of the chaos of the day, he had not afforded the time to wonder . . . he had not possessed the courage to ask . . . He could not, not when the answer may have meant . . .  
  
“Is . . .” he breathed, still terrified for his query – for this would not be the first time that Eliza had lost a child she carried due to a mother's stress and concern over another one of her children, and to know that his bygone sins could take away their last chance to experience this blessing together . . . that his erring could take away two children in one fell stroke . . .  
  
Eliza was silent for a long, pensive moment, before moving her hand atop his own, keeping his palm pressed tightly against her midriff. He could feel her shudder, and though he had no right to do so, he closed his eyes and prayed – for while he may have deserved every ill punishment heaped upon his shoulders, just as David after his sins with Bathsheba, his wife, his _wife_ . . . she deserved naught of any of these pains, and if this too was torn from her . . .  
  
“It's still there,” she finally whispered, her voice tight and raw from grief. “I know it is . . . it has to be, for I _can_ _no_ _t_ . . . not again . . . not like this.”  
  
He felt her swallow, and her limbs tightened as if she braced herself to receive a blow. He could imagine her face in the dark: the furrowing between her brows and the thin line her mouth made as it pressed together, and knew that she was summoning her strength. When she spoke, however, her voice was strong. “But I . . . I want to be alone tonight, Alexander. I do not want you here . . . not right now.”  
  
Though her words were as a blow after a day of many such blows, he understood her feeling so. A part of him was simply thankful that she had allowed him what little she had, while another part of him balked and selfishly wanted to refuse her request, for he needed her then as he never had before. And yet . . .  
  
. . . his family had too long paid the price for what _he_ wanted, for what _he_ selfishly believed he needed and had the right to take. And so: “I understand,” he whispered, and only allowed himself the luxury of touching the proof of their unborn child one last time before quietly slipping away, leaving their bed behind for the cold comfort of his study once more.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.

Once the funeral was over and their son was properly laid to rest, he moved his family uptown, where the air was sweeter and the world itself seemed to turn with a slower pace.  
  
As the days passed, he did not much speak to his wife; he kept to his own rooms, and the bulk of Eliza's days were spent with her sister, tending to their own Angelica, whose mind had still not recovered from her grief over her brother's passing. Her cherished role of mother, at least, kept her hands full and her mind occupied as she struggled to lay to rest the memory of the son she now had not of.  
  
In some ways, Alexander felt as a ghost, haunting the long halls of the house and turning about the small garden over and over again. When he at last felt the tidy rows of hedges and prettily arranged flowers, living their last in defiance of the winter to come, press in against him, suffocating him, he took to walking the streets beyond the house alone. He always looked down at the cobblestones, seeing nothing and no one as the too large storm of his mind spun and spun, leaving him clinging to the wreckage of his psyche in an attempt to find a harbor amongst his own thoughts. Slowly, he processed what he had lost, and, in some ways, he barely started to cope as, once again, he felt his spirit bear its grief and begin the long, slow climb towards health and healing once more.  
  
Weeks passed in such a way, until, on a day when the last, stubbornly clinging leaves were falling, flashing with flame as they danced their final dance, he heard the sound of his wife calling his name from the garden. Her doing so was the first time she had directly spoken to him since Philip's death, and as if shot from a musket his head turned from where he had halfheartedly been penning missives and darted outside, his every sense turned to her and what she could possibly -  
  
\- but when he saw her standing there, her hands holding the now pronounced curve of her womb with tears in her eyes, his stride fell short. He could not move; for a moment, he could not breathe. But there was a smile upon her face, he at last understood, _such a smile_ , the likes of which he had not seen in far too long, the likes of which he had despaired of ever seeing again . . . and _now_ -  
  
“Our child,” her explanation was more of a sob, for she could not easily find her voice. Her tears made her eyes red and her cheeks swollen, but she had never looked more beautiful to his eyes. “I felt it move, Alexander. I _felt_ it.”  
  
His answering words were robbed by the sudden, unexpected onset of his own tears. He stumbled through those last few steps separating them, and when he fell to his knees before her to press the side of his cheek against her stomach, she did not push him away. Instead, he felt her small, strong hands hesitantly settle atop his head before threading through his hair to hold him to her. He cried then, and if asked he could not say if he wept for the child they had lost or the gift of a child they now had to look forward to. He only knew that he could no longer hold his tears at bay, and when Eliza too fell to her knees on the damp earth beside him, he turned and held her as she too cried, at last - together - grieving as they had not yet allowed themselves to.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Afterward, things slowly, but surely, started to knit themselves back together again. He did not think that their marriage would ever be as it was before, but he settled his thoughts by telling himself that he merely looked forward to anything her heart saw fit to offer him now. He owed her that much, and he would content himself with the new shape of their relationship as she defined it.  
  
Even so, he was thankful beyond words when she shyly whispered that he could return to their bed if he wished. He had not slept a full night through without her by his side during their weeks apart, and the idea of a full, unbroken night's sleep was almost as tantalizing as the idea of Eliza welcoming him back by her side once more.  
  
Now there was peace seeping in his bones, and a painful sort of contentment settled about his heart as he held her in the dark. Neither of them had yet to sleep, and he seemed unable to keep himself from touching her stomach as she pressed herself against him. Such had often been the state between them through all of her pregnancies before, but now, the idea of what God was allowing them made him even more sensitive to his blessings, and he could not quite keep the shape of his awe at bay.  
  
“So, which do you think it will be?” he whispered into her hair. “A son or a daughter?”  
  
A heartbeat passed, and he could imagine the thoughtful way her eyes narrowed as she bit her lip to consider. “A son,” she finally said, absently playing with the strings of his night-shift to whisper, “Another son.” Her eyes turned up in the dark, and she asked, “Does that agree with you?”  
  
At first, he wanted to say that the idea of another daughter in a household already teaming with boys was not an unpleasant one. And yet: “As long as the child is healthy, I do not care if it is a fish,” he replied, which was the honest to goodness truth on the matter. “Have you thought of names?” he asked next.  
  
“I had only just begun,” she admitted. “I . . . I do not think that the idea of naming this child was real to me before today.”  
  
For that, he held her tighter, and knew a sort of peace fill him when she sighed against his chest. “Perhaps,” she mused aloud, “we can name him after one of your comrades? Gilbert, or George . . . or Laurens?” For the last, she bit her lip to say, and she looked down before her eyes flickered upwards again, meeting his with a boldness that, at times, he wondered how he could reach out and make his own. “We already have a John . . .” she explained to fill the silence, though she need not have.  
  
“I would not burden a son of mine with the name _Gilbert_ ," he snorted to reply, "and George already has more than enough children named after him . . .” No matter the sort of stabbing sensation he could feel sink between his rib bones and twist, he forced a note of wry humor to his voice, not wanting her to see how much that still, even after all of this time . . .  
  
“Laurens . . .” he swallowed, trying to speak aloud and explain . . .  
  
. . . but he could not find his words; not for that . . . not ever for that.  
  
“Instead,” he ventured after a moment, his fingertips tracing over the skin of her stomach as he looked to feel their son kick again. His voice was slow and uncertain, and he was not yet sure of his decision before the words tumbled out from him, his syllables fast and jumbled as the idea took root in his mind and grew. “I . . . I know there's no replacing what we lost . . . but I was thinking Philip again.”  
  
In reply, Eliza went very, very still in his arms, with the hesitant sort of ease she had finally allowed herself with him then breaking as thin ice over a turbulent sea. He could hear her swallow, and her fingertips pressed against the skin of his chest.  
  
“Betsey?” he asked, wincing against his own stupidity. “I am sorry, that was thoughtless of me.”  
  
But she still said nothing, even though he could feel her jaw work, as if she wished to speak, but could not.  
  
“We can name him whatever you wish,” he tried to sooth over the wound he had so thoughtlessly opened. “Please, I am sorry for my leaden tongue. I did not think.” _Again_ , he knew with a pang.  
  
But she only turned away from him with a small sigh, though, at least, when her shoulders moved up and down with the familiar pattern of tears and their shedding, she let him hold her though her grief, and act as what anchor against the storm he could.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The second of June was a day seemingly caught in limbo, with the weather unsure if it wanted to relinquish the cool breath of spring and embrace the promise of the summer heat to come. There were clouds in the sky at the morning hour, gently misting the earth below, but the heavens showed signs of breaking once noontide came, making it, perhaps, a fitting hour for Eliza to bring their son into the world.  
  
The rush of feeling that fatherhood brought was ever a sensation impossible to describe, and one he never quite grew accustomed to. As he had with all seven of his children, he held his son close and counted out his fingers and toes, each one perfectly formed and so incredibly small, before cradling the infant close to his chest and leaning down to whisper in his ear, introducing himself for the first and promising to love and protect him throughout his life as a father should.  
  
If the words had more meaning this time, and tears touched his eyes for his saying so, he told himself that such was well, as it ought to be, and he did not fight his grief so much as he welcomed it as an old friend to say, “Your brother would have loved you as much as I do.”  
  
As had become their custom, he held their son as Eliza was treated to a much earned bath and the soiled bedding was changed out for that fresh and clean so that she could rest. When she was at last comfortably settled in again, smiling ruefully to admit that, at five and forty, her body had not borne her labor as well as it had at three and twenty, he gently sat on the bed besides her and handed her the infant so that she could greet her son. Just as he had, she counted out his fingers and toes and smoothed over the fine dark hair that dusted his skull. Tenderly, she leaned down to breath in his distinct baby-scent and whisper words that Alexander could not quite hear, but could imagine, nonetheless.  
  
After some time had passed, and the soft sunlight hesitantly peaked through the clouds to illuminate what he loved best in the world, he asked, “What is his name, my charmer?”  
  
For a long moment, Eliza was silent in reply. He watched as she considered, carefully weighing her options – perhaps knowing that hers would be the final say in the matter, for he would not fight her decision, whatever it may be. Then, finally, she looked up to meet his eyes as a soldier taking her shot, and said, “Philip.” At first, the name was little more than a whisper from her mouth, and she said again, _“Philip,”_ as if making certain that the nearly non-existant shadows in the room did not surge forth with ghosts for her saying so.  
  
And he was very, very still in reply, wanting, and yet . . . “Are you sure?” he nonetheless prodded. “If you are doing this just because I suggested it, I do not want you to know grief - ”  
  
“ - and that is precisely the reason I feel we must do this. I do not want every time I hear _his_ name to be a reason for mourning anew,” she muttered, looking down at the baby she held, tracing the curve of his cheek and the impossibly small shape of his ear with her fingertips to say, “I wish to only know joy when I think of my son, and this child is most certainly a joy . . . a blessing . . . a _gift_.”  
  
She leaned against his shoulder with a sigh, and continued, “God has given me the greatest of blessings in this life; I have known happiness as no other woman has known . . . and to balance that joy, I have also known the greatest of pains. This child . . . remembering my first child when I say his name . . . that I would not count as a pain, but a blessing.”  
  
In answer, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders to hold her closer, and she settled in against him with a sigh. For a moment, he listened to his wife and son breathe, wanting – nay, _needing_ – to reach out and make her easy belief his own. He was ready for that healing, he thought, and now . . .  
  
“Someday I'll see him again, my Philip,” Eliza whispered against his shoulder. “And then, someday again, I will introduce my son to his brother . . . his namesake . . . and he too will have the joy of knowing the blessing that made his passing bearable.”  
  
Her words were a soft thing that nonetheless painted a vivid picture in his mind, taking the abstract idea of _beyond_ and _after_ and turning it into something desirable . . . where his mother could meet her grandchildren, and all those who had died, such as Laurens, dear _Laurens_ , could . . . But Alexander only swallowed, and held his wife tighter to say, “I can imagine it, even now.”  
  
He wove his fingers though her own over the soft swaddling cocooning their son, and, for the first time in months, he let a smile touch his mouth as he looked forward to the days to come.

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> In real life, Eliza _was_ already pregnant when Philip died, and there was a big worry for a miscarriage, especially as she was older - forty-five - and had already miscarried from stress earlier in their marriage. But she persevered and managed to bring a healthy son into the world, and they did indeed name him Philip, calling him 'little Phil' to tell him apart from his brother. Philip was only two years old when Hamilton died in his duel with Burr, if you needed further cause for angst after reading this.
> 
> As another side note, Angelica Hamilton did suffer a mental breakdown from Philip's death and she needed constant attention and tending to for the rest of her life. So, Hamilton's actions had very far reaching repercussions for his family, and, honestly, knowing that makes their trying to repair and salvage their marriage all the more beautiful in my opinion.


End file.
